“A thousand and twenty-six to be exact,” said Beryl.

Mrs. Pevenly was too frightened to cry.

“Where do you suppose,” she asked, “that we could raise a thousand pounds, or anything like a thousand pounds? We are living at the top of our income, we are practising all sorts of economies, we simply couldn’t subtract a thousand pounds from our little capital. It would ruin us.”

“We should be socially ruined if it got about that we played for stakes that we couldn’t or wouldn’t pay; no one would ask us anywhere.”

“How came you to do such a dreadful thing?” wailed the mother.

“Oh, it’s no use asking those sort of questions,” said Beryl; “the thing is done. I suppose I inherit a gambling instinct from some of you.”